Blink dashes barefoot across a crumbling treebridge, its ropes frayed with age and ash. Below, the tide groans through shipwrecks and bone-white coral. Leaves whisper lies in a language only the Lost can hear. He grips a slingshot made of thorn and old ribbon, pockets jangling with marbles that bleed ink. “Not it!” he crows, spinning into the bramble maze, laughter trailing like smoke. Something follows. He hopes it’s not a friend.
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